


Shadows of Doubt

by ifwednesdaywasaflowerchild



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Wakanda (Marvel), kiss, romanogers fluffathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 01:49:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18356129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifwednesdaywasaflowerchild/pseuds/ifwednesdaywasaflowerchild
Summary: The shadows are her home - they always have been, especially now that the Sokovian Accords broke her family apart. Now, the woman in the shadows is on a mission to find the man who brought the light back, and there, in the golden fortress of Wakanda, they both find what they need.Each other.





	Shadows of Doubt

The shadows remain her home.

Even here in Wakanda. _Especially_ here, with all of the grandiose architecture, dazzling warriors with their gold and body paint and those big, beautiful eyes that seem to look straight into your soul, and the gleam of _goodness_ that settled over the country. T'Challa is a noble warrior, a man not of the world, but of the spirits of the warriors before him, and in a display of his character, he'd offered asylum to powerful figures, once deemed assets by the United States. After the failure of the Sokovia Accords, the United Nations (honestly, she can't roll her eyes hard enough to express her utter indifference toward them) had deemed Steven Rogers, and his team of mutants and misfits, traitors.

Not long after, she'd gotten word from someone, a source claiming anonymity, but sounding a hell of a lot like Sam that Steve and the others had found semi-permanent reprieve with T'Challa and that he could be found in Wakanda, holed up in quarters prepared for him by the country's new leader.

"If you want him, I've sent word to cat dude." Sam had mumbled through the broken ear piece of a payphone. She'd traced his number as far as Georgia, possibly Mississippi, before the trail went cold. "He could use a familiar face."

She'd been confident in her teaching and Sam's steep learning curve for all things spy-related (she secretly adored his child-like enthusiasm for covert ops) and had known that he'd have been gone before she could have narrowed down her options. So, she simply hadn't bothered and instead spent twenty-four hours crafting a new cover, fake documentation, and buying a plane ticket, ignoring the trepidation churning in her stomach.

Between the flight and the private escort to where she might find Steve's residence, she's had plenty of time to contemplate all the reasons this is a bad idea. She's not sure how he feels about her, anymore. The people he'd fought so valiantly with had betrayed him, at least, that's how he'd seen it and considering the state of his mental health after waking up seventy years in the future, she hadn't blamed him. A part of her, the part of her that still wanted to stick a boot up Stark's ass, wishes she'd done more to protect him, done more to get him and Bucky the help they desperately needed. The help Sam had done his best to give them. But, Steve had wanted her by his side and she had chosen Stark's side, instead. He'd gotten one best friend back, only to lose one, and she'd never quite been able to shake the haunted look in his eyes when he realized that she wouldn't be backing him up. He could very well hate her.

The worst part is, she wouldn't blame him.

...

From the shadowed corner across from his door, she can just see his silhouette. The sharp square of broad shoulders is non-existent, instead he's slumped forward, attempting to make himself look smaller, and in the black jeans and wrinkled gray t-shirt, it almost works. But, he's tall and broad and strong and as much as he might want to look small, he'll never be that dumb kid from Brooklyn, again. The one that was too sick and too weak and frail to enlist. The one that never ran from a fight has done nothing but run because his best friend needed him, because his last anchor to that little guy is still alive, and his savior needed a savior and he had to step up.

Keys rattle - sounds a bit like her nerves, actually - and she realizes that she's about to lose her opportunity. "Square those shoulders, Captain." she teases, stepping into the puddle of light cast by the fixture next to the top of his door. "That's poor form."

Fumbling hands pause, keys jingling like bells until they hit the carpeted floor, and he spins on the heels of his polished boots. She's standing there, rocking awkwardly on her heels, hands tucked in the pockets of her dark jeans, looking at him with big eyes he's so missed looking back at him when he sought solace or camaraderie in the midst of battle. Unbidden tears burn, fresh and hot in his eyes, disbelief pulling a hard breath from his lungs, because it's Natasha.

"Be mad at me, later." Steve breathes through tears and the congestion of too many emotions in his throat, thinning, straining his voice. His arms scoop her up, clutching her to him like a child clinging to a teddy bear, breathing her in. "Be mad at me, later, Nat."

His beard tickles her where he nuzzles into the pretty paleness of her neck, mouth claiming her pulse point, littering it with kisses. Tears soak her thin t-shirt and trembles flutter across the breadth of his shoulders. Teasing him will come later, but for now, she slings an arm across his shoulders, presses the other hand to the back of his neck, and holds him tight because she's missed him, too.

God, she feels like home.

_Home._

That word feels so foreign to him, now. He hasn't had a real home in seventy-something years, now. Sometimes, in those really low moments when he actually considers ending it all, he wonders if he'd have been better off without the serum. Without the serum, he wouldn't have had to face all the wars, he's been in, all with Hydra and the tesseract at the center of it all. But, that's cowardice, and despite feeling like he'd be better off dead, sometimes, like maybe the world wouldn't unravel at his feet, he knows he can't take the easy way out. At least, without the serum, he'd still have a home. He'd still be safe in Brooklyn, and Bucky would still be there, not in cryo in T'Challa's lab. Then, that part of Steve that is so deeply in love with Natasha reminds him that if he never had the serum, he would have never met her, he wouldn't have one of his best friends become one of the great loves of his life.

No matter his size, though, Steve would always be lost in some way. Of course, it's compounded, now, that he's in the future and there's been a culture shock - Sam was a great help with that, with his Marvin Gaye albums and his suggestions and his silent understanding - and he'd been without a genuine friend for so long. When he was little Steve, his home was simple. It was wherever Bucky was, which is why he fought so hard to enlist, because he knew his best friend was drafted and he couldn't face losing his home, again. They were with each other 'til the end of the line, and it made the loss cut that much deeper when he woke up.

Natasha had helped, too.

She was there before Sam; there with those wide, but understanding eyes, and the drawling tone that bordered on patronizing but was really just her personality. She'd stuck by his side and she'd helped him adjust, helped him hone in on the part of his brain that could easily travel through time - the part of him that could fight. It was a good release and sparring, both physically and verbally, with Natasha had been a relief to his culture-shocked mind. She'd sparred her way into his heart and taken up residence, helped him through so much, only to turn around and take Tony's side when he needed her most.

"I'm sorry." her gloved fingers sink into his hair, and her other hand pulls him in closer, holds him tighter. "I'm sorry I didn't see it, before." her voice is thin around the apology, watery and emotional. "I'm sorry I didn't see you needed help not rules. I'm sorry I didn't see what I should have. What you tried to show me."

"I'm sorry I was an asshole to my friends - to my best friend." Steve might be a little more emotional than she originally anticipated but then, he's been through more than the average person and paid prices few could afford to pay. He's lost friends, made some, fought like hell to get to a place where his life wasn't a complete shitshow, for all the good it did.

"I think we're okay." she breathes, pressing her face into his hair. God, he still smells good. Still smells like leather and metal and _home_. "I think we've got a long time before Tony speaks to us, again, but I don't think he'll be so quick to go along with General Ross, next time. If there's a General Ross left to be dealt with."

Steve's watery laugh doesn't sound like much, and maybe to most people, it wouldn't be much but to her it is everything. As loathe as she would be to admit this where other people could hear her - Steve is her compass, her lighthouse, and perhaps, it shouldn't be that way, she shouldn't rely on someone else to guide her through, but she's always been that _"little girl lost"_ , even when she claimed to know exactly who she is and where she is.

The truth is Natasha Romanoff is whoever she needs to be, whenever she needs to be that person, and where she is morally isn't always important. So, to have Steve, a man whose word can be taken at face value most of the time, is a comfort to her. To let him guide her home, where she know she's safe and trusted, where she doesn't feel stripped of everything that makes her Nat. That's important to her. It gives her a sense of humanity, it gives her an idea of morality, and it's ultimately what made her fall in love with Steve.

Oh, sure, her and Bruce played a good game, and she happily served him a cocktail and her best flirty smile, but Steve is solid. Steve isn't unpredictable or prone to fits of dissociative rage. Steve is truth and purity (though, that makes her scoff) and genuine human kindness. He doesn't require the moral compass of someone else to tell him which direction to go, he is the direction in which humanity should go.

He's certainly the direction she goes.

"T'Challa treating you, okay? You need anything? Sam's still stateside, I can have it here, tomorrow." Natasha's still combing her fingers through his blonde waves - she does enjoy the way that little bit of curl at the end twists around her gloved fingers. It's soft and soothing, something to ground herself in, remind herself that she's here with him, now, and she doesn't have to leave him behind. She's done that far too much.

"I'm alright." Steve nods, slowly peeling his face from her neck. He's a little puffy and blotchy but he still looks better than the tired shell she'd witnessed from her dark corner. "Better, now that you're here."

"I thought for sure you'd be disappointed I wasn't Sharon." she teases; it's light and meaningless but his eyes darken. "Hey, I didn't mean to bring up a bad..."

"No, it's not you." he brushes it off with a shake of his head. "Not you, babe. Just me. Sharon was...Sharon was a mistake - a spontaneous, stupid, never going to happen again, mistake."

Natasha pretends not to have heard his pet name and instead, she offers a soft smile; "So was Bruce."

"I thought...." his head tilt is endearing and impressively effective.

A shake of her newly blonde curls - which, for the record, Steve finds sexy as hell, he just hasn't worked it into the conversation - and all she can do is explain as simply and as vaguely as possible. "He's not solid enough for me."

"Solid." Steve repeats, blue eyes twinkling thoughtfully, mischievously. "You mean the hulk isn't solid enough for you, Nat?"

"No." flushed cheeks and uncharacteristic fidgeting mark the beginning of an awkward explanation. "Not the kind of solid I mean. Bruce couldn't - he couldn't give me what I need because he didn't have it."

"What do you mean?" Steve's too damn curious but also irresistible.

"Do you know what people called me after I graduated from the Red Room?"

Natasha's abrupt question throws him off but he just shakes his head - no, he doesn't know, and maybe he doesn't want to know but she obviously needs to tell him. "маленькая девочка потеряла." a pause to compose herself, catch her breath. "It means little girl lost."

"You're hardly lost, Nat."

"I was - still am, really." she presses her back to the wall - needs some form of support to get through this. "I didn't have any idea what it meant to be anything but a weapon - I was trained as one. I could pretend, sure, assimilate, convince you I knew things I had no clue about. But, nothing was real - I didn't have a moral compass."

"Nat, you -" Steve can't believe what he's hearing. "What is this all about?"

Shoulders, once square and stiff, are now soft, round, and her entire body seems to slump forward, chin tucking into her chest. "I need you."

"What?"

It takes every ounce of courage she has left - which isn't that much, in the grand scheme of things - to finally look up, to finally face him again, and admit what she swore he'd never find out. "I need you. I need you to show me the way back, again. I need you to show me when the smoke is being blown in my face because sometimes, I can't always tell."

"Nat, you don't..." Steve looks confused, and rightfully so. One thing he's always _loved_ about Natasha is her independence. She went through life without needing to be defined by another person but he also knew that when her world was being swept out from under her, again, it hurt her deeply. There's only one fallen regime she's ever found it in her to weep for - the perfectly imperfect fortress of people she surrounded herself with and cared about enough to call family, and when she felt like they all betrayed her, like they were just blowing smoke, the wound cut deeper than any scar left behind by the Red Room.

"I do." a deep sigh, resignation, relief, and an certain irony in her voice. "I do need you because you're the only person who never blows smoke. You're the only person who doesn't lie to me and tell me that I'm doing the right thing. You call me out on - on my bullshit." her bottom lip quivers, tears catch on her eyelashes, and Steve's hands are warm on her face. "You don't let me - I feel less like a broken idiot when I'm with you."

"Hey!" Steve stops her before she breaks down completely - he actually cannot watch her go through this. "You don't get to call yourself a broken idiot. You _aren't_! You're not broken, you're not an idiot. We've just been lied to, Nat. That doesn't make us fools. The only fools are the liars. You stood for what you knew as the truth and that is as noble as anything I could ever do."

"Then, why couldn't I stand with you when you didn't sign the accords?" the tears slip over his thumbs and he's quick to wick them away. "Why couldn't I stand with my best friend when he just wanted to protect the only person who ever saw him?"

"It doesn't matter, Nat. It doesn't matter." Steve shakes his head, "Okay? I don't care about the accords or what they did to us. You're here with me, okay? You. And, no, we're not where we were. We'll rebuild. It's what we do. We've worked with less."

"You're a damn fool, Steve."

Steve can't help laugh at that - yes, it's something Bucky told him quite a bit, but to hear it from her, it makes it seem less like a scolding remark after his sixth broken nose, and more like a gentle ribbing from a woman, he's so dearly missed. He gives her that tender smile, so full of love and affection, and breathes the sentiment that's been on loop in his head. "I've missed you, Nat."

Natasha just smiles up at him. "I've missed you, too, Steve."

He releases a breath, blue eyes still sparkling and bright, but there's something a touch darker about him, a touch more primal, now, and before she can contemplate what that might be, he's pinning her to the wall and claiming her mouth with his own.

There's a certain fulfillment, relief, even, that they both find in a kiss, they'd never admit to wanting long before Sharon or Bruce were ever an option, and it drives it, pushes it, and pushes them. Pushes her to grab at the back of his neck, fist her other hand in his t-shirt and tug, until he's grabbing for a thigh, lifting her knee up and slotting his hips into the space between them. Until he's pressed so tightly against her, she might suffocate, and love every minute of it.

"Not here, Nat." he replaces his mouth with his thumb, brushing the kiss-swollen flesh of her bottom lip. "Not now. We'll get there, I swear we will but we - me and you, we've come too far to let sex be all we were building up to. I want a relationship with you, blondie, not just sex in a fortress."

"Blondie?"

"Yeah," laughter in his eyes, but also a raging storm of unsatisfied lust. "I like the blonde. I think I still prefer red for nostalgic reasons."

Natasha just laughs and leans up, letting her mouth brush along his jaw, before finally pressing a tender kiss to his cheekbone. She leans against him for a moment and reassures him; "One day, when we're through running, I'll be that redhead you once knew."

"I still know her." Steve tugs her away from the wall and slips both arms around her, allowing her to sink into his warmth and feel safe. "We just had to get lost in order to find each other, again."

"Very philosophical, Rogers." Natasha rolls her eyes but can't help the smile. "I'm glad we did."

"Me too, blondie."


End file.
